


The Man with Burning Eyes

by AnomalyFiction



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M, Homage, friendships, relationships, slow burn?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-08-23 17:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20246356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnomalyFiction/pseuds/AnomalyFiction
Summary: Being an edited, reworked, and very much changed rendition of the events described in Gaston Leroux's original work, The Phantom of the Opera. Starting at the beginning and ending in a place that Master Leroux perhaps did not intend, but is going to happen anyway.





	1. The Farewell Party

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, there! I have to admit that this work is likely going to contain some lines of text pulled directly from the original work by Gaston Leroux. I’m writing it this way because I love some of the dialogue and the character descriptions, but I see many things about this famous novel that just do not sit right with me. I would list the things I dislike, but I'm sure it will become obvious as we go along, so I won't waste your time here. I’m not really sure I’m going to keep most of the mystery/horror aspect from the book either (I might do a piece later that is more horror than romance). I find it kind of annoying when people focus purely on the romance aspect and rug-sweep the mystery, but at this point everyone knows what’s going on and the suspense part of the novel just feels a bit on the dull side. Two chapters about the opera ghost messing with the new managers is boring when you already know the ending. It might be a slow burn here and there, but I hope my version is just a little bit more fun while still being respectful to the original. At least the first part is respectful. I’m likely to diverge from the source after the graveyard scene (chapter 5 in the novel). After that we’ll switch perspectives and mix things up a bit. Well, whatever happens, I hope you enjoy this weird little rendition of The Phantom of the Opera that I have entitled: The Man With Burning Eyes.

To be entirely truthful, the Palais Garnier in 1910 was more akin to a small city than an Opera House. Each of the seventeen floors was dedicated to a craft that aided in the production of a performance. All of the sculptors, painters, gold-smiths, costume-makers, singers, dancers, cobblers, and various workers could practice their craft within the walls of the building. Some were even housed there. The Opera House also boasted a series of cellars and a stable for the horses trained to be on-stage. The art and architecture lovingly bestowed to the Palais Garnier launched it into the public conscience and have held it there for over a century. The high, painted ceilings in the foyer have welcomed droves of visitors from ardent music lovers, to their bored tag-along companions; the gilded accents throwing a warm glow over guest and staff alike.

It is on this stage that we set our scene and on this night, the managers of the Palais Garnier take their final bow and introduce their replacements to the company. Mssrs. Debienne and Poligny hosted a final gala performance to mark their retirement. Each floor has their own party planned to offer best wishes to their former managers, and Debienne and Poligny do their best to spend time with each group equally. Being much loved, the were plied with handshakes and well wishes from nearly all their former employees.

But the true triumph of the night belonged to Mlle. Christine Daae, who began with a few lines of Romeo and Juliet and ended with the prison scene from Faust. Those her heard her that night claimed her voice was nothing less than seraphic, and her depiction of Margarita much improved over Mlle. Carlotta’s more robust performance. The Mlle. Carlotta in question, having fallen ill earlier that day, decided to bow out of the festivities. Daae revealed a new Margarita that night, a Margarita of splendor, a radiance hitherto unsuspected. The whole house went mad, rising to its feet, shouting, cheering, clapping, while Christine sobbed and stumbled to her knees on stage, needing to be aided to stand by her fellow singers.

The Comte de Chagny, Phillipe, and his brother (younger by twenty years), Raoul, stood in their box, listened to all this frenzy and took part in it by loudly applauding. Philippe de Chagny was just forty-one years of age. He was a great aristocrat and a good-looking man, above middle height and with attractive features, in spite of his hard forehead and his rather cold eyes. On the death of old Count Philibert, he became the head of one of the oldest and most distinguished families in France, whose coat of arms dated back to the fourteenth century. The Chagnys owned a great deal of property; when the old count died, it was no easy task for Philippe to accept the management of so large an estate. His two sisters and his brother, Raoul, would not hear of a division and waived their claim to their shares, leaving themselves entirely in Philippe's hands. When the two sisters married they received their portion from their brother, not as a thing rightfully belonging to them, but as a dowry for which they thanked him.  
At the time of the old Count’s death, Raoul was twelve years old and his brother actively busied himself with the youngster’s education. He was assisted in this work first by his sisters and afterward by an old aunt, the widow of a naval officer, who lived at Brest and gave young Raoul a taste for the sea. The lad entered the Borda training-ship, finished his course with honors and quietly made his trip round the world. Thanks to powerful influence, he had just been appointed a member of the official expedition on board the Requin, which was to be sent to the Arctic Circle in search of the survivors of the D'Artoi's expedition, of whom nothing had been heard for three years. Meanwhile, he was enjoying a long shore-leave which would not be over for six months; and already the dowagers of the Faubourg Saint-Germain were pitying the handsome and apparently delicate stripling for the hard work in store for him.

It was no secret that Phillipe spoiled Raoul, proud of him and pleased at the idea of a glorious naval career. He took advantage of the young man's leave of absence to show him Paris, with all its luxurious and artistic delights. Tonight they were at the Opera, Phillipe had introduced Raoul to the lead dancer and had been excited to introduce Prima Donna Carlotta, but had been pleasantly surprised by this fresh face, the singer Daae.

On that night, after the Faust faded into applause, Phillipe turned to Raoul and noticed a strange look on his face.  
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked

“I don’t know.” Came the reply. “I have never heard her sing quite like that before.”

Phillipe grinned, “Well, let’s go see what is going on.”

They pushed through the crowd to the stage, Raoul leading the way. Behind the stage, their way was blocked by a crowd of ballet-girls. The Comte found himself surprised that Raoul knew his way around. Phillipe was known as a man-about-town, but Raoul was considered so shy that his brother began to worry. Now he saw that he need not have been so quick to judge; the younger Chagny clearly had a preference. They finally reached the dressing room and saw that it had never been so packed with people as on that night. Raoul drew himself up to his full height and made an imperious suggestion.

“Don’t you think, ladies and gentlemen, that you should clear the room?” he said cooly. “There’s no breathing here.”

“He’s quite right,” said the Doctor that had come check on Christine after her near faint, and sent everyone away except for Raoul and the maid. The maid eyed the viscount with astonishment but said nothing; since the doctor had allowed him to stay, she would not speak against him. Even the Comte de Chagny was put to waiting outside, chuckling to himself and patting his brother on the back in his mind.

“Oh, the rogue,” he muttered under his breath. “He is a Chagny after all!”

Inside Daae’s dressing room, Christine sat at her little table and looked back and forth between Doctor, maid, and Raoul. “Pardon me, Monsieur.” she said in a quiet voice. “Who are you?”

"Mademoiselle," replied the young man, kneeling on one knee taking up the diva’s hand, "I am the little boy that went into the sea to rescue your scarf." And he gallantly pressed a kiss to her fingers.

“Raoul?” Christine cried. “It has been too long! What brings you here tonight?”

“Please,” he pleaded. “I have something to discuss in private, if you would.”

“It will have to wait,” Interrupted the doctor with his most charming smile. “I must attend to mademoiselle now.”

Raoul pouted prettily as Christine reclaimed her hand and the maid shooed him out the door. Resolved to wait, he waved his brother off to the farewell ceremony in the foyer and tucked himself in a shadowy doorway where he could wait for Daae to go join the rest of the company. First the doctor left, then the maid. Raoul stopped her on the way to ask how her mistress was. The woman laughed and said she was quite well but wished not to be disturbed before she moved down the hall. Of course, he thought; He had said he wanted to speak to her privately, so she was waiting for him. Hardly breathing, he went up to her door, prepared to knock. But from within he heard a man’s voice speaking in a curious tone.

“Are you very tired?” asked the voice.

“Oh, I gave you my soul tonight and I am dead.” Christine replied.

"Your soul is a beautiful thing, Christine," replied the grave man's voice. "I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. Truly, the angels wept tonight."

Raoul heard nothing after that but did not leave. Instead, he slunk back into his shadowy corner to wait for the man to come out. In one swift movement he had learned that he could love and that he could hate. He knew that which he loved. Now he wanted to see whom he hated. The door opened and Christine appeared, wrapped in furs. She closed the door behind her but he noted she did not lock it. She walked toward the foyer but his eyes did not stray from the door. Once she was gone and the hall was empty, he opened the door to her dressing room and went in. He found himself in absolute darkness as the gas had been turned off.

"There is some-one here!" said Raoul, with his back against the closed door. "What are you hiding for?" All was darkness and silence. Raoul heard only the sound of his own breathing. He quite failed to see that the indiscretion of his conduct was exceeding all bounds.

"You shan't leave this room until I let you!" he exclaimed. "If you don't answer, you are a coward!" He struck a match and the blaze lit up the room, but there was no-one there. Raoul turned the key in the door and lit the gas-jets. He went into the dressing-closet, opened the cupboards, hunted about, felt the walls with his trembling hands. Nothing!

"Look here!" he said, aloud. "Am I going mad?"

He stood for ten minutes, listening to the gas flare in the vast silence of the empty room, then went out, not really thinking about where he was going. He found himself at the bottom of a staircase, down which a procession of workmen were carrying a sort of stretcher, covered with a white sheet.

"Which is the way out, please?" he asked one of the men.

"Straight that way, the door is open,” came the answer. “But you best let us pass."

Gesturing at the stretcher, he asked mechanically: "What's that?"

The workmen huffed: "That is Joseph Buquet, who was found tonight hanging in the third cellar, between a farm-house and a scene from Roi de Lahore.” Raoul took off his hat and made room for the workmen before walking out himself.


	2. The Resurrection of Lazarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine visits her father's grave and Raoul follows. We learn a little more about their childhood.

Now, my dear readers, let us turn our attention to one particular player. Mlle. Christine Daae came to the Opera House by chance after the passing of her father, the late Swedish violinist. In her youth, she and her father traveled often, sharing their propensity for music as far is they wished. Him playing his violin with genius rarely expressed in human form, and her accompanying with a voice that left many in awe. Indeed, young Christine knew the musical alphabet before she could actually read and anyone that heard her sing agreed she shared her father’s talent. They were also drawn by her sweetness, her charm, and her eagerness to please. When he grew ill, he settled in Paris under the care of the Widow Valerius, who cared for Christine as her own daughter and Christine continued to live with her after his passing; Now caring for the widow in her old age.

In her travels, when she was about twelve, a young Raoul did indeed run into the sea to fetch her little red scarf. He had been staying with his venerable old aunt as the Daae’s were passing through. The two youngsters took to each other immediately and when Father Daae began to cough so terribly and settled in Paris, the young Chagny did visit once or twice before joining the navy. “I shall never forget you,” he proclaimed. But he never wrote, and on the occasions his brother brought him to the Opera House, he shyly avoid Christine and did not speak to her. Until that night of the farewell party.

It has been many years since Father Daae passed, and since then Christine’s talent seems to have faded. She performed well enough to gain a part as a chorus girl at the Palais Garnier but the joyous luster of her voice appears to have been buried with her father. Her angelic talent was truly a shock to everyone in the audience, and even the company was surprised by the wellspring of genius discovered, apparently, in secret.

And after her triumph, Christine chose not to immediately continue forward on her path to fame for reasons entirely her own. Instead, she took a break from the Opera and went to visit her father’s grave in Perros. She said as much in a note to Raoul de Chagny.

Monsieur:  
I am terribly sorry I did not have time to entertain you the other night. I truly felt exhausted after my performance and thought it best to go home to rest. I write to you today because I am going to Perros, in fulfillment of a sacred duty. Tomorrow I am going to visit the grave of my poor father. He is buried there in the graveyard of the little church where we used to play as children. I hope to see you when I return to discuss what you wished to speak to me about in private. I shall not be gone more than a few days.

Sincerely, and with well wishes,  
Christine Daae.

Raoul, dismissing the unsaid request to wait, hurriedly consulted a railway guide, dressed as quickly as he could, wrote a few lines for his valet to take to his brother, and jumped into a cab which brought him to the Gare Montparnasse just in time to miss the morning train. He spent a dismal day in town and did not recover his spirits until the evening, when he was seated in his compartment on the Brittany express. He read Christine's note over and over again, smelling its perfume, recalling the sweet pictures of his childhood, and spent the rest of that tedious night journey in feverish dreams that began and ended with Christine Daae. Day was breaking when he alighted at Lannion. He hurried to the diligence for Perros-Guirec. He was the only passenger. He questioned the driver and learned that, on the evening of the previous day, a young lady who looked like a Parisian had gone to Perros and put up at the inn known as the Setting Sun.

Finally in Perros, he stepped into the smoking room of the Setting Sun to see Christine standing there with an odd smile on her face, and showing no astonishment.

“So you came, she said. “I thought I’d find you here once I returned from mass. Someone at the church told me so.”

“Who?” asked Raoul, reaching for her hand. She pulled back and looked away, suddenly unsettled.

“No-one. It doesn’t matter.” She glanced around. “I did say in my letter I would see you once I returned.”

“I couldn’t wait!” He cried. “I needed to tell you that I love you and cannot live without you.”

Christine blushed to her eyes and said, “You are joking, my friend.” She chuckled nervously.

"Don't laugh, Christine; I am quite serious," Raoul responded.

“I did not ask you to come tell me that. I am here to visit my father’s grave.” She tried to move past him caught he caught her arm and held fast to her hand.

“You made me come, Christine. You knew I wanted to see you and you told me you were coming to Perros. It only made sense that you truly wanted me to come to you here. And here I am.” He looked down shyly. “And now you know the truth of my love for you.”

Her eyes darted around the room. “Please, please Raoul.” She said, taking his hand and finally meeting his eyes to stare furtively into his face. “May we discuss this when I return to Paris. I am here for myself and for my father. I would like to discuss the state we find ourself in when I am home and free to think on it.”

Raoul scowled, angry and unhappy. “Does this have something to do with the man that was in your dressing room the other night?” Now she seemed startled. “Is that why you won’t talk to me? Why you want me to go?”

“You heard…what…” She stuttered. “No. You were listening at my door, I suppose. No, Raoul; Whatever you think you heard has naught to do with this.” Tears welled up in Christine’s eyes as she let go Raoul’s hand and stepped back, away from him. “I simply want to do my duty to my family. I thought you would wait for my return but you came instead. I… This is too much!” Then she turned on her heel and fled to her room, leaving Raoul confused and in great disorder.

Christine didn’t leave her room for the rest of the day, and Raoul did not see her the next morning either. Miserable and dejected, he walked down to the graveyard and meandered among the tombstones, reading inscriptions. Looking toward the little church, he said a prayer for Daae and climbed the slope to sit over the edge of the heath and stare out at the sea.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Christine’s voice behind him. “Do you remember when we played here as children?”  
“We watched for the Korrigans to come and dance once night fell.” The pleasant memory sparked smiles on their faces. “You used to pretend you could see them even though you knew I could see better in the dark.”

Christine grew serious and settled herself on the heath beside him. “Listen Raoul, I have something I’d like to talk about… That voice you heard? That is my music teacher.” Raoul blanched and opened his mouth but she continued. “He comes to my dressing room and gives me lessons and, well, you heard the result. I am much improved under his tutelage.”

“Here now,” Raoul protested, turning toward her. “How long has this been going on?”

“About six months.” She stared straight out to sea, not looking at him. “He is a most unusual character. No-one sees him come or go. Not even me. He is very private.”

“Now wait,” Raoul interrupted. “A strange man that nobody has seen sneaks into your room to give you lessons? And that was the voice I heard that night? But I didn’t see him leave your room or hear his footsteps. It appears, Dear Christine, that someone is having a laugh at your expense.”

Christine sighed and set about delicately braiding and unbraiding a lock of her glossy blonde hair. “I really hadn’t expected you to believe that a strange figure was helping me sing, but I had hoped you’d understand that things have changed since we were young and that a story like that, while ridiculous, is also too ridiculous to make up entirely.” She turned her pretty blue eyes up to his, (brown and with an expression that he was a little lost) “And I doubt you would believe that I hear his voice from the walls and I have never even seen him in my dressing room.”

Raoul sat back and watched the waves play on the shore. “Well, I went into your room after you left and there was no-one there. I was so sure to find a secret lover in the wardrobe, but… nothing!”

“So you see!?” She cried, desperately trying to get him to believe. “There are strange goings on and I am _not_ mad!” She leaned toward him in her fervor and he desperately wished to hold her. “You remember when Father told us stories. Stories about Little Lottie or the King by the Lake. You remember he told us the legend of the Angel of Music. Well, as he lay on his deathbed, Father told me he would send the Angel of Music to me and he _has,_ Raoul. That is who has been giving me my lessons, the Angel of Music!”

“Now I know for sure that someone is making a joke of you,” Raoul said, cruelly. “Or you are making a joke of me. We are not children anymore and I am too old to go along with that kind of silliness. Is it so hard to see that some strange person is taking advantage of your childish fantasies? The voice I heard in your dressing room is just a man, if it is anything.”

The light in her eyes died and she sat back, folding her hands in her lap. “Can’t it be both?” She asked. “Can’t it be Man and Angel? Or a man visited by the Angel of Music, like it visited Father?”

“No Christine.” Raoul said, hating to be callous, but still tinged with jealousy and wanting to tell the truth. “It can’t.”

Subdued, she stood, and dusted off her skirt. “Thank you, Raoul. I’ll see you back in Paris.” And she walked stiffly back to the Setting Sun.

Raoul returned to the inn feeling very weary, very low-spirited and very sad. He was told that Christine had gone to her bedroom saying that she would not be down to dinner. Raoul dined alone, in a very gloomy mood. Then he went to his room and tried to read, went to bed and tried to sleep. The hours crawled by, excruciating.

At around half-past eleven, he heard the faint sounds of someone moving around. Christine had not gone to bed. Raoul got up and dressed as quietly as he could. He watched as Christine’s door opened and she slipped down the hall. After a moment he stealthily followed her, managing not to alert her to his presence.

She walked the path back down to the church. The clock tower struck a quarter to midnight and Christine hastened her steps, spurred on by the chiming. The gate to the churchyard was open, which surprised Raoul, but apparently not Mlle. Daae. She knelt by her father’s grave and, making the sign of the cross, began to pray. At the strike of midnight, she lifted her eyes to the sky, her face alight with sheer joy.

Raoul heard it. The most exquisite music. It was The Resurrection of Lazarus that Monsieur Daae used to play in his moments of melancholy. But even the late violinist’s genius could not touch the heavenly strains dancing over the tombstones that night. Words would be hard put to describe the transporting effect it had on the two figures transfixed in the moonlight. Christine, remembering her dear Father. Raoul, thinking of a bright red scarf and the sea. As the music ended, Christine stood, wiped the tears from her eyes and slowly made her way back to the hotel.

Raoul, however, heard a low chuckling sound from the direction of the church, and after Christine had disappeared from view, moved closer to investigate. He saw the door was ajar and pushed his way inside. From the corner of his eye he saw a shadow move along the wall. He gave chase and caught the shadow just as it reached the altar. The shadow turned and Raoul saw, in the faint strains of moonlight coming through the windows, a face like a skull. It darted a look at him with scorching eyes, and the shadow reached for him with long, grasping fingers. In that moment, Raoul’s resolve failed him and he fainted there on the church alter.

He was found the next morning and brought back to the hotel. Christine, with the help of the landlady, tried to revive him. When he woke to the face of his friend leaning over him, he tried to sit up and moaned, “I have seen the face of death, the face of Satan. Christine, there is a shadow here.” She merely held his hand and said nothing.


	3. Return to Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change under the new managers. Christine makes a friend

When Christine returned to the Opera House, she found it in something of an uproar. Some strange figure had been sending messages to the new managers, Armand Moncharmin and Firmin Richard. Word had it, they attempted to change a policy held by the previous managers and had been responded to with certain opposition. Monsieur Buquet, the senior stagehand, had died under mysterious circumstances, apparently on the night of the gala! And a variety of strangeness had occurred, which was promptly blamed on the Opera Ghost.

The Opera Ghost was a running joke and an old superstition. Thespians and entertainers are notoriously superstitious and any misfortune that sprung up during a showing from issues with the props to the misplacement of a dancer’s right shoe was attributed to the mischievous way of the Ghost. One thing that Mssrs. Debienne and Poligny had done to ease some of the superstitious minds in the company was to permanently reserve Box Five and declare it “the Ghost’s Box.” There were still reports of a strange figure, always in dress clothes, and with a head like flames, stalking the halls and scaring the wits out of the workers. It was always a story that so-and-so heard from so-and-so which meant it no source but everyone believed it to be true, nonetheless.

But the new managers had sold the Ghost’s Box. That caused whispers but it seemed the the Ghost had reclaimed his box in quite a dramatic manner and before you knew it, the managers were in an uproar and Madame Giry, the dignified old concierge, and been called up to answer for the strange goings on. That made the company nervous. If they were going to be blamed for things that were not their fault, then they might be less careful about things going astray to begin with. All in all, Moncharmin and Richard had started off on shaky ground. 

Christine had heard all the best gossip from the dancers chattering as they prepared for rehearsal of this Saturday’s showing of _ Faust _. Before she could wrap her head around most of it, she was more or less waylaid by a brightly enthusiastic Carlotta. 

“Christine!” She crowed, startling the younger girl. “I heard all about the gala! You were holding out on us, weren’t you? Where did you learn to sing that way? Margarita’s prison scene takes a notorious amount of fortitude. Did you strain your voice? Is that why you left afterwards?” The Spanish diva had always been a bombastic personality. Some said that her voice was too robust for the part of Margarita, but she always put her whole heart into her performances and it showed, no matter the part.

Christine tried to find a place to start in the barrage of questions. “I… umm… I’ve been training these past few months, and you are right, the prison scene was harsh but I didn’t hurt myself, I was just winded. I went to visit my father’s grave after, I owe so much to him and it felt proper. I heard you were ill, are you better now?”

“Oh, that,” Carlotta waved her hand dismissively. “I got a note saying I should fake illness and bow out of the festivities. I thought about ignoring it, but I needed a break had already said my good-byes to Monsieur Debienne and Monsieur Poligny. Now I’m glad I did so. You were the brilliant surprise those fogies at the gala need to liven up their old bones!” She grinned, resplendently and hooked an arm through Christine’s. “Now, you simply must show me your new talent during _ Faust _ this Saturday. The addition of a new sparkling star on this stage will only brighten our reputation, no?”

“Oh. Yes.” Christine was unused to so much attention, and Carlotta’s keen energy was unnerving her ever so slightly. “I look forward to it.” Carlotta patted her on the shoulder in camaraderie and whisked off across the stage to speak to the costume handler. 

Christine took a deep breath and resolved not to be so shy in the future. Sudden conversation had always startled her but she really started to hate being so blasted timid. How was she supposed to achieve anything she hoped for if she stayed so mousey?

Over the course of the next few days, Carlotta insisted on popping up in Christine’s life. During rehearsal, she would materialize at Daae’s side to give advice before flouncing off. “Raise your chin, darling,” She would say if she caught Christine’s head drooping partway through the song. “The ground has no ears and the back row cannot hear you like this.” And then she was gone.

“Like this, Christine,” Carlotta said during dance practice, shaping the younger woman's arms and back into a more graceful curve. “Do not be afraid of grand gestures. You won’t over-act on this stage, I promise. It’s Opera!” She guided Christine through the motions a few times before flitting off again. Christine was getting used to the attention. Carlotta seemed determined to push her limits. ‘She must be serious about wanting to see me perform,’ Christine said to herself.

After practice, they would talk. Carlotta asked prying questions and chattered about Spain, her family, and her past lovers. Christine found herself drawn in, no matter how timid she once was. The Spanish diva was so unashamed of herself and the confident attitude was truly infectious. Carlotta seemed to be offering something akin to friendship and the lonely Christine could use a friend. Beyond a teacher or a lover, just someone to talk to was a true godsend.

That Saturday, Christine answered a knock on her dressing room door to see Carlotta, worry stamped across her strong features. “May I come in?” Something was definitely wrong, she was never that quiet. Christine let her in and settled her on the little bench by the door. 

Shaking ever so slightly, Carlotta drew a white card edged in black from her pocket. “This was in my dressing room today. It looks like the one sent to me the other day about the going away party.” Christine read it. It was written in red ink with a clumsy hand, as if the person writing it had not yet learned to connect the letters of their words properly. 

_ If you appear to-night, you must be prepared for a great misfortune at the moment when you open your mouth to sing ... a misfortune worse than death _.

“I don’t think it was you,” Carlotta said quickly. “But this one is more threatening and bowing out a second time could very much affect my career. I will be seen as unreliable! If you know who did this, could you tell them to stop?”

Christine thought a moment, tapping the note against her fingers. “You should sing your part tonight.” She sat beside the diva and tried to comfort her, though she had no practice with it. “Whoever sent this may want to sabotage you, or further my career, or both. But Margarita is your part and I am not fully prepared for it. Really, I am only comfortable with that one prison scene. I will play Siebel as planned and if this mystery person wants to protest, they may speak to me.”

Carlotta’s shakes had cleared and she sprang up with her usual vigor. “Of course! If I am indisposed, I cannot hear you sing. I expect you to impress me.” And she kissed Christine brightly on the forehead and sped away again.

Christine sighed into the silence that surrounded her. “If this is you trying to help me, I would very much like you to stop,” she said. She stood and walked to the back wall beside the full length mirror, touching the stone with her fingertips. “I can do this myself now.”

The cold stone gave no response and neither did the silence.

* * *

The crowd began settling into their seats and the managers locked themselves into Box Five. This elicited grumbles from the company. Inviting bad luck on their first appearance as managers? Even if they don’t believe in the Ghost, they ought to respect tradition. The Comte de Chagny and the Viscount were in their own box and didn’t the lad look ill? He really should be in bed. He’s white as a sheet! 

The lights went down and applause rose from the audience as the players took the stage. The first act went along without any problems. The stage hands behind the scenes, checked and double checked their work. Luck or no luck, they were not having any accidents pinned on them tonight. No repeats of Joseph Buquet either, though whether he had an accident or an “accident” was still up for debate and the subject of much gossip. The first act ended without any unusual circumstances.

The second act opened and Carlotta whispered a few words to herself in her native Spanish before sweeping onto the stage. The players whirled in front of the inn with the symbol of Bacchus on the sign, Christine made her entrance as Siebel (charming in her boy’s clothes), and Carlotta crossed the stage to sing the only two lines afforded her in this act:

"No, my lord, not a lady am I, nor yet a beauty,

And do not need an arm to help me on my way,"

And this scene also ended without incident. Carlotta took breathed a sigh of relief and turned to focus on young Daae. The thrill of discovery glinting in her eager eyes.

The next scene was in Margarita’s garden. Christine held a bunch of lilies and roses in her hand and sang her first two lines:

"Gentle flow'rs in the dew,

Be message from me ..."

She lifted her eyes to the Comte’s box and her voice faltered for a moment but then she glanced offstage and saw the Prima Donna’s hopeful face in the darkness between the curtains. Her voice returned and strengthened all the more, she stepped forward:

"Would she but deign to hear me

And with one smile to cheer me ..."

In the box, Raoul buried his face in his hands and broke into tears. He had asked to see her once they returned to Paris but she had not taken his offer. She simply said she was busy but he did not understand why she would not want to see him. Phillipe, astounded by his brother’s drastic shift in health had also asked for an appointment but she claimed she had no answers to Raoul’s unusual state. He chewed his mustache and scowled, clearly furious.

“That little baggage,” growled Phillipe. What did she think she was playing at? By all counts she was a virtuous girl; no friend, no protector of any kind. He wondered what she wanted.

The rest of the audience was thoroughly awed. Rumors has circulated after the gala but to experience such a thing in person was a treat all by itself. Here was a previously undiscovered gem, bright and wholesome, and not even the lead part. Appreciative murders and hissed, "I-told-you-so's" took the crowd for a moment before silence returned.

Onstage, Carlotta made her next entrance. She got through the Ballad of the King of Thule and had just started the jewel song when things began to go wrong. The managers in Box Five began to squirm, glancing around as if they heard something. Suddenly, a booming voice echoed over the crowd.

“Did I not make it clear?” asked the voice. “That Box Five should be left empty.” One of the dancers pointed up to the catwalk and shrieked.

“The Opera Ghost!” A wail rose from company and patrons alike.

“Careful now!” the voice called. “That noise is fit to bring down the chandelier!” and with that, the chandelier in question began to shake before smashing down into the crowd. 

Panic ensued. The audience rushed for the exits, the players dashed backstage. The managers threw themselves to the floor of the box and Monsieur Richard may have started sobbing. People shouted as they tried to help those under the chandelier and calls to fetch a doctor rang out.

Thankfully, not many were hurt when the chandelier fell but there was, sadly, one fatality. It was, oddly enough, the woman that Firmin Richard had brought in with the hopes of replacing Madame Giry. She was hit directly and died at the hospital the next day. Afterwards, the newspapers ran the story with the headline: **Two Hundred Kilos On The Head Of A Concierge. **And this was her sole epitaph.


	4. After Faust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We descend.

Unbeknownst to anyone that was not watching, Christine vanished from view as soon as the voice declared itself (and it is safe to believe that everyone was distracted by that point). She climbed onto the catwalk to see if should could find the speaker because she knew that voice like she knew the sound of her father’s violin. It was her Angel. She peered around, but to no avail. The theater was too dim, and she could not discern where the voice was coming from. Then the chandelier fell and she ran to her dressing room. Maybe he would come for her there. She heard the screams of terrified patrons and the shouts of people trying to help, shrinking back in the corner of her room. She hadn’t wanted this.

Without preamble, she heard something. A song. Sung as though very far away but getting closer every second. “ _ Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die! … _ ” It was the words of Lazarus after he hears the call of the Redeemer. And it was sung by the voice! She gasped her relief and her heart beat fit to burst. The sound came from the other side of the wall and she felt drawn forward. Without understanding how, she found herself outside her room. She turned back to see her dressing room with its little table on the other side of a pane of glass. Her mirror? She did not know. 

She looked around and found herself in darkness, even the voice had stopped. She noticed a little red light in the distance. Ah, she was in a hall with the glass on one end and the light at the other.

“Christine.”

She whirled around but saw nothing, as this end of the hall was still dark. She felt the touch of a hand on her wrist and she recoiled against the wall, then raced to the light. She pressed herself against the wall by the light, seeing that there was a path to either side but entirely unwilling to leave the circle of visibility the light cast. Soft footsteps approached her tiny haven and she clutched one hand to her chest, the other raised as if to ward off a blow. The footsteps stopped at the edge of the circle, just enough in the light to make out a vague shape.

“Wh… Who are you?” her voice quavered between them. The silhouette raised its hands, palm up, and stepped forward. It shaped itself into a man wearing a black cloak and a black mask. Christine felt her knees go weak and she slid down the wall to sit on the floor with a soft thump. The man in the mask knelt by her side, his cloak billowing a bit before settling. His hands hovered in the air as if he wanted to touch her but was unsure how to stay in polite boundaries. 

“I am sorry, Christine.” It was the voice. This man was the voice. Her Angel. A man in a mask.

Hearing her name grounded her enough to entertain thoughts consisting of whole sentences. Her mind had known, one way or another, that the voice giving her singing lessons was not truly an Angel. She knew that her father could not return, even as a voice. Dead was dead, after all. But this? This night? Seeing Raoul in his box with that hungry face, the chandelier falling, the wall behind her dressing room, the Man, the Mask. 

She didn’t realize she was weeping until she felt a handkerchief being pressed into her hand.

“Oh, Christine,” the voice, no…  _ his _ voice. It had never sounded so mournful. “I’m sorry, I truly am. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He wrung his hands and worried at the collar of his cloak. “Please don’t be afraid. You are not in any danger.”

She sniffled into the handkerchief and the man stopped talking. She reached out and patted his shoulder; partly to reassure him that she was well, partly to see if he was real and right in front of her like she thought he might be. He was.

“I’m not frightened,” she said, folding his handkerchief. “Well, I was for a moment but not anymore. I am mostly just  _ tired.  _ Not in body, mind you, but in soul.” She plucked at the corners of her little square nervously. “So much has happened in the space of less than two weeks. The gala, then Perros, then this. And Raoul has been on about something, claiming he loves me.” She patted the cloth into the palm of her hand just to give her fingers something to do and so she wouldn’t have to show her tearful face to a stranger. Was he a stranger? He was strange enough right now. Due to her focus, she did not see the man’s hands clench under the cloak. “My poor heart is so weary, I don’t know what to do.”

She finally looked up to the mask and tried to discern what he was thinking. The light was too low to see his eyes but he saw her face, and saw the truth of her words written in her expression. He stood and offered her a hand to help her up. She looked at him and, feeling somewhat resigned to this new strangeness, let him lift her to her feet. He steadied her with an arm around her waist until he was sure she could stand on her own, then moved away.

“Wait here,” he said, and disappeared down the side corridor.

Christine put a hand against the wall by the red light, hoping he would return quickly. Seeing him was strange enough, but being alone in the dark was much worse. She heard… were those hoofbeats?

The man returned, holding a lantern and leading a white horse. Christine recognized Cesar from the production of  _ Profeta _ . She had snuck him sugar cubes when the handler was not paying attention. She remembered those dancers mention something about a horse missing from the stables, but thought it was an outlandish rumor. After all, who loses a horse? But here was Cesar, robust and healthy. In a secret passage behind her dressing room. If she had not been exhausted, she would laugh at the absurdity. The man offered her his hands to help her step up. She crossed her arms and gave him a look with the last glimmer of stubbornness she could muster. “I still don’t know your name.”

He paused a moment and simply replied, “I am Erik.” Taking that as good enough, Christine allowed him to lift her onto the horse.

Erik lead Cesar through the corridor. Christine was sure it became a tunnel at some point. It did feel like they were sloping downward. She had no sense of time, but the darkness let her float in her mind, thinking about recent events to the sound of Cesar’s steps. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she recognized their surroundings, though it seemed a distant sensation. These were the cellars under the Opera. She had only ever explored three cellars down and there were still two more underneath she had never visited. They passed by the boilers with men shoveling coal into never-ending fires, heating the building above. When Christine was younger, she imagined them to be demons feeding eternally hungry, infernal mouths. Erik could clearly see by the dim light caused by distant fires because he doused the lantern and put it… somewhere. Christine was not paying attention. She retreated within herself once more and was jarred back to reality when she heard water. A blue-tinged light illuminated and filled the space around her now. He had brought her to a boat.

“What… ?” She was too tired to but together the whole question.

“There is a reservoir under the Palais Garnier.” He explained as he helped her down. “It leads to an underground lake. On the shore of that lake is where I live. I’d like to show you.”

“I just want to rest.” Christine said. 

“I’ll only take you where you ask to go.” Erik said softly. “If you want, I can take you to Madame Valerius and put you in your own bed. Just say the word.” She swayed on her feet and he steadied her with an arm around the shoulders. 

“Which is closer?” Christine was having a difficult time keeping her eyes open.

“The house on the lake,” came the reply.

“Then there.” She tottered forward and was too tired to protest when Erik picked her up and settled her into the boat like a baby in a crib. She fell asleep almost immediately.

“Thank you,” Erik whispered, his beautiful voice choked with emotion. “I know I ask too much tonight, but I… I must do this.” In the front of the boat, covered by Erik's cloak, Christine did not stir.

* * *

Christine woke and found herself lying on a sofa in a small room. A mahogany bedstead took up the corner, lit by a lamp set on a chest of drawers. Two doors opened into the room, one lead to a small bathroom, the other to a room with a dining table. It appeared to be a central room, as there were halls and doors connected to it. Vases of flowers stood on pedestals in each corner and their perfume just reached the door. She decided not to chance the unknown temperment of a stranger simply to explore so she stayed put. After a moment, nature began to call and once she had used the restroom, not only did she feel much better but Erik had also returned.

“I was beginning to wonder when you would be up and about!” He said brightly. He was arranging a number of boxes and parcels on the bed, as if he had returned from the market and wanted her to see want he had brought. “It is very nearly two in the afternoon. I wound your watch for you and put it in that top drawer.” He pointed to the chest of drawers. “I imagine you would like some lunch. I have it set up in here.” And he moved to the room with the table.

Christine sat at the table, on which had been set a delightful lunch. She saw chicken and cheese, bread and oil, even wine. The bottle stated it was Tokay. Erik fixed her a plate and poured a glass of wine, ever the gracious host. Christine ate a little, her growling stomach at odds with her nonexistent appetite. She noticed his mask had changed. This one was also black, but while the top half looked like the mask he wore last night, the lower half of this one was a veil of black lace. This allowed more freedom of movement for his mouth and he could eat by slipping bits under the veil.

“So your name is Erik?” Christine asked in a soft voice, curiosity stinging her scalp. He had been staring at the wall over the flowers and now his attention swung back to her. “Does that imply a Scandinavian origin?”

Erik swallowed hard and replied, “I’m afraid not.” He put down his silverware and fussed with his napkin. “I chose the name ‘Erik’ for myself, and it was entirely by accident. I was given no name and have no country of origin. No country that wants me in it, anyway. But I did spend some time in far-off Persia that served me well.”

“I know so little about you,” Christine mused. “You have given me singing lessons for nearly six months now and I never questioned a voice coming from the walls. Not even to ask your name. You must think me absolutely silly.” And she blushed, embarrassed.

“No, no!” Erik responded. “I did not tell you because I did not want you to know. At least, not then. I was always going to tell you when I felt that you should know.” He got up to refill her glass. “I have never thought you were silly. Perhaps your loneliness lead you to be trusting, but you can’t be blamed for either.” She sipped at the sweet wine and pondered this.

“Why the mask?” She was scared to ask but had to know. A part of her worried he might turn violent and angry but he seemed in a docile mood for now. “Why the secrets?”

Erik’s hand crept to his mask. He turned away, drifting into thought. When he spoke, it was as if he recited from a textbook; flat and lifeless. “Need I say it? I am… This is not a pleasant face, Christine. And my past… it is filled with death.” He pivoted back and sank to his knees before her. His eyes turned up to hers, filled with such hope and sorrow and many feelings she had no words for but reached her heart all the same. His voice rose with this fit of passion. “Know that this body of mine is built of death from head to foot, Christine. Know that it is a ghost that has come to love you and adore you and will never, never hurt you.” Erik put his hands to his head, his eyes dropping to the floor in front of him. He gasped for breath, then covered his face with his hands as he struggled to calm himself. In a swell of empathy, whether deserved or not, Christine reached out and put one pale hand on his shoulder.

Erik lifted his head once more. She was so close now. He took her hand in his and ran his thumb over the back of her fingers. “I am sorry.” He whispered. “At times, I am overcome with such fits. I understand if you are frightened.”

Christine found her voice. “Some memories can be painful.” She said. Her ideas on this were only half-formed but hopefully she could relay them well enough. “I don't imagine that you live five cellars underground without your reasons. Anything that can drive a man to such a thing can’t be easy to discuss either. I hope one day you might trust me with what you are unable to say at the moment.”

“Christine!” Erik sobbed once in relief, kissed her fingers through the lace veil, and stood again. “You are more than an angel, my dearest friend. If you would like, I will show you around my flat today.”

She genuinely smiled for the first time since yesterday morning. “I  _ would _ like that.” 


	5. Erik

Erik showed Christine everything. He started at the shore of the lake and went from there. His sitting room, two bathrooms, the dining room where they had eaten lunch, and two rooms dedicated to storing things he had found or thought he might need. The last door was right across from the room where Christine had woken; he opened it for her and paused.

“This is my bedroom, if you care to see it.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. You might find it curious.” She nodded and he lead the way. Erik’s bedroom was decorated very differently. The walls were hung in black with red accents, and a stave covered in sheet music stood in the room. A large organ took up the entirety of one wall and a desk nearby was dominated by a large music book covered in red ink marks. A bed stood under a canopy hung with red curtains, carefully made up with a host of pillows. In the center of the room, displayed prominently, like a trophy, was an open coffin. 

Christine gasped. “I sleep there sometimes,” Erik explained. “One must get used to everything in life, you know. Even to eternity.” Christine wondered again if he were truly mad. It could be a gentle madness, as he had not hurt her, but it must be madness all the same. 

“Is that your work?” She asked, moving around the coffin to the desk. The cover of the notebook proclaimed it  _ “Don Juan Triumphant.” _

“I do compose sometimes.” He answered. “I began that work over a decade ago. Perhaps it says a great deal more about me than Don Juan, but that can’t be helped now.”

Christine wrinkled her nose and eyed some of the notes on the first page. “I don’t mind that. Don Juan seemed like a proper rogue. I never cared much for that kind of behavior.”

Erik cocked his head at her and considered this. “He is rather forceful in his wooing, isn’t he?”

“And he kills so many men in duels,” Christine moved over to the organ and ran a hand over the yellowed keys. “His list of kills and list of conquests are purely for bragging rights, but why brag? Is murder manly?” Erik flinched at this but she was looking at his coffin, not at him. “Does blood help him with his flirting?” She reached into the coffin to touch the pillow, her fingers brushed the hollow that his head left in the down. He swallowed through an emotion he did not recognise, only knew that it choked the words in his throat. She looked up at him expectantly and that seemed to free his voice.

“You have clearly thought about this.”

Christine blushed. “I have always been told I am shy.” She explained. “Since I have not been interested in company, I read books and attend plays instead.” She came back to the desk. “Living inside your own head gives you ample time to digest new stories. Will you play some of your work?” She changed the subject.

Erik moved to stand next to her. “I am not sure if it is ready yet.” He reverently touched his fingertips to the pages. “My _Don Juan_ burns, Christine. At times it feels like this is my sole purpose for existing. One day, when I am finished, there will be no reason for me to keep breathing and I will carry it with me into that coffin, never to be seen again.”

“I think you are taking the term ‘life’s work’ a little too seriously,” Christine joked poorly, one corner of her mouth twitching into a lop-sided grin.

This startled Erik and he stared at her for a moment before breaking into laughter. “There are times I work on this for weeks at a time, not stopping for food or drink, then I sleep for years afterward. Maybe I  _ have _ been too serious.”

“That’s your problem.” Christine put her hands on her hips in mock severity. “You are clearly obsessed. You should take better care of yourself, Monsieur Erik, or I shall have to call the doctor on you.” And she shook her finger at him.

Erik shook with laughter, his joy echoing off the walls and over the lake. He wiped at tears through the holes of his mask. Christine blushed again, turning bright red to the tips of her ears.

“You flatter me, but it wasn’t that funny.” She crossed her arms. “It is not worth all that.”

Still chuckling, Erik approached her. “Forgive me, Christine.” He put a hand on her shoulder, with no more weight than a resting butterfly. “Laughter is so rare down here that I indulge in it when I can.” He lead her back to the sitting room. “What would you like to do now? We have all the time in the world!”

Christine thought about Widow Valerius and Raoul. Would they miss her? What about Carlotta? “May I write to my friends so they know I am well? I would hate for them to believe I abandoned them.”

“Of course!” Erik brought out a very nice stationary set for her. “I will even take you to deliver them yourself, if you are so inclined.”

Christine wrote four letters and asked Erik to help her deliver them. Erik showed her the path to and from his home so she could come and go as she pleased. “There are other ways,” he said. “The cellars are a labyrinth of passages. That is why no-one has discovered me in all these years. This one is safest and quite easy to follow.” He paused. “It also has ways of warning me when I have visitors.”

Together they slipped one letter under the door to Carlotta’s dressing room and one in the mail slot at Madame Valerius’ house. One went to a delivery boy sent to Château de Chagny, and Erik never saw where the last one went. He was certain she wrote four letters but they had only delivered three. He put it out of his mind. ‘If Christine wanted me to know, she would tell me,’ he reasoned.

She was flushed and breathless when they returned to the house on the lake. “Delighted, Erik! I am delighted!” She giggled and twirled around his front room in a state of frolic.

“Whatever for?” Erik asked, bemused. “We only ran some errands.”

“But the lake and the house and the secret paths are all so mysterious! I feel like I am living one of my father’s fairy stories.” 

A grin crossed his face, her mood affected him easily and his soul responded to her like flowers to the rain, drinking in her joy. “You haven’t even heard the Siren’s song yet. You were asleep last time we crossed the lake by boat.”

Christine froze mid-twirl and stared at him, enthralled. “What is the Siren?” She breathed.

“I shall pack us a meal to take with us and we will picnic in the boat.” Erik said. “It will make for a lovely concert, I think. Could you bring me the basket from the room down the hall?”

Christine practically skipped to fetch the basket, as excited as a little girl during a festival day. Erik busied himself gathering the things he wanted to take with them and tried to ignore the useless hope building in his chest. 

They settled everything into place and Erik gave Christine an extra cloak. “It can get cold on the lake.” Then he hung a lantern from a hook on the prow and pushed off the dock. The boat drifted over the water and a mist rose around them in patches. They got far enough from the flat that the light in the window was barely a speck in the distance. Erik slipped his steering pole through an associated slot in the seat and sat beside Christine, digging the basket out from under the boards.

“There is a sound that fills this chamber every few hours.” Erik explained, passing Christine slice of fresh bread with soft cheese spread on it. “It is a melancholy music that seems like it is coming from the water itself. I like to come listen to it some nights when I can’t seem to sleep. I call it the siren for its ability to lure me out here.” He paused, reflecting. “It can be dangerous too. I don’t suggest coming out here without me.”

“No need to worry about that,” Christine laughed. “I don’t think I am strong enough to lift the oars, much less steer this thing.” She saw the lace of Erik’s mask flutter and saw the smile in his eyes. Rummaging in the basket, she found a bunch of grapes and brought them out. Erik plucked a few for himself and, as with lunch, maneuvered them under the mask to his mouth. They sat for a few moments, enjoying the quiet sounds of the water against the boat and the company, however strange.

“It’s starting,” Erik said in hushed tones. He leaned against the side of the boat, staring wistfully into the dark. A haunting sound floated out of the eternal night. It wrapped Christine in its tender arms and kissed her cheeks, whispering words of love in her ears. Memories drifted by: Rainy days on the road, sunlight on the mountains, sleeping on hay curled up under her little cloak. Time left her behind for a spell and when she returned to herself she found tears on her face and her fingers clutching Erik’s hand. 

“Pardon me!” She cried, relinquishing the appendage in question. “It’s just that during concerts I would hold Father’s hand or when he played, I would hold a doll or Raoul was there and that music reminded me so much of traveling with him and the sound of wind over the fields and through the trees and, and… ” Christine stopped babbling and burst into tears outright. Erik put his arms around her and she did not have it in her to push him away. The comfort he offered made it hard to be strong and she wept until there were no tears left in her.

“His passing was a nightmare,” She hiccuped once the sobs died down. “A tragedy, a… a catastrophe.” Pausing to blow her nose on the handkerchief Erik offered, she tried to put words to her thoughts. “Like a landslide or a fire that destroys a city. An earthquake that shook the whole world to pieces.” Erik offered her some water and she sipped carefully. “But the only one really shaken was me. Madame Valerius was a friend, nearly a mother, but she had others to rely on. Raoul and I had said our goodbyes by then and I’d received no letters from him. I worried that, perhaps, I was just a passing fancy. Would he care for my news about Father?” Erik stayed silent as she freed herself of her secret misery. He stroked her hair and ignored the wet spot on the front of his dress shirt. Christine was more important than fashion. She continued, focused on purging this poison from her mind. “I heard nothing from him for years. What was I supposed to do? I had no talents besides my voice, no skills a young girl could use to improve her station, and a terrible shyness that stopped me from looking for work. All I had was Madame Valerius’ charity and a dead father.” Anger was beginning to creep into her voice. She sat up and glared into the past. Erik let her go. “I fight my shyness tooth and nail to scrape up a minor part in the chorus but now I’m part of a company. A Company! All on my own! And then that night at the gala…” Christine looked down at her hands. “It was the closest I have ever come to my dream,” she finished quietly. 

Erik gulped. He was sure she would remember his lie. 

“And my one friend was a voice from the wall that turned out to be a man.”

Erik softly reached across the chasm in the air between them and touched her shoulder. “Would you like to go back now?”

“Yes.”

The spot of light grew in the distance as Erik took the boat home. As he was tying it to the little dock, Christine had a thought. “I did make a new friend this week. Carlotta has been absolutely thrilled since I performed the prison scene for the managers.”

“Is that so?”

“I believe she considers it a friendly competition. She certainly has her charms.”

“I expected her to be too brusque for you.”

“She may be too much of an actress for Marguerite but she seems to be pleasant enough as a person.”

“You would know more about her than I.” Erik picked up the picnic basket and lead the way into the house.

“By any chance, did you send that note?” Christine said this in such an off-hand and friendly manner that it took Erik by surprise. He did his best to hide that fact from her.

“Note?”

“The notes edged in black. One telling her to avoid the party, the other telling her to bow out of  _ Faust _ .” She looked directly into his eyes. “Was that you?”

“It was,” He said carefully, turning to place the basket on a table. “I now see I sent the second note in error. I should not have tried to rush you into a part you were not prepared for.” Erik faced Christine, shoulders squared. “Even if I know you could sing that part like the angel you are, your thoughts on the matter should take precedence over mine.” He gave a little bow. “I apologize for my rudeness.”

“You should also apologize to Carlotta,” Christine pointed out. “You made her worry for no reason.”

“Yes, Christine.” Erik assented. “I will be sure to send flowers to her dressing room. Is that a good place to start?”

“It is.” Christine stated imperiously. A half-smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “And I forgive you.” She saw his eyes smile at her through the mask.

“Then I will do that first thing tomorrow.”


End file.
